Kindling
by Morgane Lurker
Summary: Dale's got more to say than 'thank you' after borrowing Harry's shirts. Slight AU, stretched-out timeline.


**Kindling**

* * *

"I came to return these." Dale set down the pile of folded flannels on Harry's kitchen table. "It should have been done sooner, but…"

Harry gave a tired smile. "Coop, I think it's safe to say it's been the last thing on anyone's mind whose shirts you're wearing."

Are you certain? Dale wanted to ask. Because he had been aware of the extra room around his shoulders, the lingering smell of another man… and which man in particular. Long before that, he picked up on the ease of their glances and touches. And just now, the feeling of being somehow privileged to see Harry in plain clothes. His deep-green flannel shirt, squared by lines of black and faint yellow, brought to mind sunrays in a pine forest.

"Besides." Harry leaned against the kitchen counter behind him. "With the mess that mill fire left behind, there won't be much time for civil clothing in a good while."

"That's a shame. They're quite comfortable." Dale had realized this during his suspension, when it felt inappropriate to adhere to the dress code of an agency he was not guaranteed a reinstatement to. Problem was, he'd packed precious little in the way of civil clothing. Fortunately, Harry's wardrobe was well-stocked on one garment Dale's lacked: flannel shirts.

He fingered the shirt on top of the pile, the earthy brown one that Albert reluctantly had complimented him for carrying off rather well. A faint trace of the Great Northern's laundry detergent wafted from it. The fabric felt rough but not unpleasant to his touch, the seamy side worn soft with use. When he first put it on, the warmth had enfolded him like an embrace.

And now he was back to his suit and Bureau service. But the sheriff's kindness had made his suspension bearable.

"Josie thought they were too scratchy." Harry's tone carried no bitterness; this was a fond memory of a lover's idiosyncrasies.

Dale suppressed a frown. He needed not voice his opinion on Josie Packard, now when Harry could speak of her without sadness in his eyes. But inwardly he did question the wisdom of fraternizing with a woman who made herself scarce for months without stating her reasons or address of contact.

"She borrowed one when we went up to Smuggler's Hill."

Smugglers' Hill, nicknamed so during Prohibition. Harry and Dale climbed it too, three Saturdays ago, in search of some respite from the disturbing events that surrounded Leland Palmer's death. There was a sort of meditation in pushing off the ground toe-first, a slight ache spreading in your calves. It evoked Dale's Eagle Scout days. As they ascended Harry had pointed out things of interest - animal tracks, tree species, a brook that joined the Pearl Lakes further down. Donuts and coffee in hand, they amused themselves with spotting landmarks like the Whitetail Falls and the highway. From afar Twin Peaks had looked so serene, it was easy to forget that evil lurked no farther away than the shadows under the trees. But in the drowsy sunshine on the hillside that was Harry's favorite corner of the woods, Dale found it hard to lose himself in bleak thoughts.

He circled the table to reach Harry, and cupped his elbows.

"I believe flannel shirts are quite underestimated as far as clothing is concerned. The general opinion may be that they are simple and reserved for the climate of these latitudes. But to me they stand for something genuine and reliable." His hands slid up the sleeves, ruffled the generous folds. "They're warm." Passed over his shoulders. "Durable." Smoothed down the collar. "Comforting. And these are qualities that should be appreciated in a man, too."

His eyes met Harry's. The man peered at him with a quiet, curious gaze. Dale slowly leaned in, giving ample time to be stopped.

Harry shivered, but did not pull away (Dale would never have done this if he'd anticipated such a reaction). Firm lips met his with a tang of coffee to their taste. He nuzzled that rugged jaw, inhaled the smell of shaving soap. A soft sigh escaped Harry when Dale's hands ghosted over his sides. Calloused fingers threaded into Dale's hair, stroked his neck.

Eventually Dale drew back, a roguish grin on his face.

"And I'd really like to bring this man with me to Pearl Lakes on Sunday."

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A/N: I started writing this Porn Battle XV-fill back in 2014, but didn't finish it until now. The prompt(s) was Dale Cooper/Harry Truman: forest, flannel, natural, warmth.

Many thanks go to my sis; your beta-reading helped improve this alot.


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